


to 'scape the serpent's tongue

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Paladins, Warlocks, Widofjord Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Fjord confesses his fears about his patron to Caleb, and together they decide to find a way to break the pact for good.





	to 'scape the serpent's tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asexualshepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualshepard/gifts).



> I started this just before the first Xorhouse episode, so some things are not quite up to date with canon, but that's ok. thank you so much to jaz for the initial ideas that sparked this fic and for cheering me on when I faltered <3
> 
> Title is from A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Fjord startles awake in the wee hours of the morning, heart racing and breath coming shallow in his chest. He isn’t sure why. It was no patron dream, not like he’s had many a time before. But there’s still a sinister shadow clinging to him as he rolls out of bed and drags himself to the chamber pot for a piss. The sky outside the window is pitch black, as ever, but he feels like it’s still early, not quite dawn. _Sailor’s bones don’t lie._

He doesn’t think he’ll be falling asleep anytime soon—or perhaps he’s afraid to—so he pulls a robe on over his sleep shirt and loose pants and pads barefoot down the hall to the stairs. It’s a path he’s tread many times before over the last few weeks in their new abode, but something about the late hour twists familiar shapes into unfamiliar, and he goes slowly, placing his feet with care on each spiraling step.

When he reaches the top he almost isn’t ready for it. He stops by the door, which is left ajar, and braces his hand against the wall to gather his balance and his composure. From inside he can hear the low crackling of the hearth, burnt nearly down to coals. And beneath that, the faintest whiffling snore. He bites down on a smile and pushes in.

Caleb is where he expects him to be: slumped low in one of the plush armchairs by the fire, an open book spread across his knees and his chin tipped to his chest as he sleeps. His reading glasses, tiny little crystalline things that he’s terribly embarrassed about, have slipped to the end of his nose. Frumpkin is curled into a snug little ball on the couch against his thigh, but looks up immediately, eyes glowing in the dark. Fjord holds a finger to his lips.

“Mrr?”

Caleb jerks awake with a snort and barely manages to catch the book before it falls to the ground. Frumpkin gets up, stretches, and _thu-thunk_ s to the ground before padding over to Fjord and winding around his ankles.

“Fjord?” Caleb whispers. His voice is soft and raspy from sleep, so familiar it makes Fjord’s chest ache.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He nudges Frumpkin gently out of the way with his foot and kneels in front of the fire. The coals are still alive, white-hot, but the flames have dwindled for lack of fuel. It’s the work of a minute or two to feed it a fresh log and poke it into obedience, and then he has to retreat to the couch or become uncomfortably warm from the cheerful blaze now emanating from the hearth.

“Good evening, Fjord.” Caleb has rubbed the sleep from his eyes by now, and his reading glasses have been hidden away in his breast pocket as he extends his lap blanket to drape over Fjord’s legs. “Dreams?”

“No—well, sorta. Not a nightmare, just. Couldn’t sleep.” He nudges Caleb’s arm gently with his elbow. “Whatcha reading?”

“Oh, nothing. A treatise on transmutation stones that I hope would be enlightening, but the reading is very dry, and so far it’s touched on nothing I don’t already know.” Caleb doesn’t sound defeated, though. If anything there’s a gleam of inquisitiveness to his eyes as he flips open to a random page in the middle—no doubt the very last page he was reading, though there is no marker or folded page—and resumes reading.

Fjord lets himself sink into the couch a little more, at first content to sit peacefully. But a part of him is still restless, and after a few minutes he rises to look out one of the tall lancet windows that breaks up the curving bookcases along the tower walls.

The sky is still dark. He steadies himself against the carved stone frame and curls his other hand in front of him, palm up. The creases are deep and numerous, coalescing toward his wrist like the many rivulets of a delta rushing inland with the tide. He shuts his eyes and thinks of water.

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._ Saltwater drips from nowhere in particular and gathers in his palm.

“Fjord?”

He startles and drops the spell. Water drips off his fingers into the carpet, blending with the dark, swirling vines stitched into the pattern. A gentle hand touches his back.

“Are you all right?”

Fjord takes a breath and holds it a minute before letting it go. It fogs the glass, obscuring his reflection, and he’s not sure whether it’s a mercy or a curse. For as many times as he’s wished to look like someone else, right now he doesn’t think he could bear to be in anyone’s skin but his own.

“I don’t know,” he admits to the frosted glass. “I think… I think my…” He can’t even bring himself to say the name aloud, as if that would prevent him being found. “I think he’s displeased with me.”

“Displeased,” Caleb echoes, voice sharpened to a keen point at the mention of Fjord’s patron. “What makes you say so?”

Fjord isn’t used to this. Staying in one place. Putting down roots. _Settling down._ It’s not quite that—they have a laundry list of things to attend to for the Bright Queen and the Professor, not to mention little personal projects that they now have the time and resources to attend to—but it’s the closest thing Fjord’s had to a home since the _Tidesbreath._ He isn’t used to having the time to… be honest. To feel safe. But he _does_ feel safe, with Caleb. With the sturdy, inkstained hand on his back and the cat slumbering on the hearth.

“A few weeks ago,” he says, halting, toneless, “I woke up and I. My sword was… out.”

From anyone else he might expect a snort or a snigger, but Caleb has always known how to afford him dignity. “Was this the night you dreamed…?”

“Yeah. I woke up and it was like my powers were just. _Gone_. I couldn’t put my sword away or summon it, I couldn’t cast, I couldn’t even disguise myself.” He feels cold and clammy at the recounting, and he rubs his arms against the chill. Caleb’s hand spreads wide against his back, warm and steadying. “He— _it_ said it was going to… punish me.”

Caleb’s fingers stipple his back briefly and Fjord is turned reluctantly to face him. The wizard’s face is drawn with worry, and beneath it something angry and cold as steel. “Punish you. For what?”

“For not… carryin’ out its orders, I guess.” Fjord rubs absently at the bare patch of chest exposed by the deep V of his shirt, half-expecting to feel scars or bruising. But there’s nothing. “Caleb, I. You know I don’t want to… bring him back or raise him or whatever, but if I don’t…”

“If you don’t.” Caleb is frowning at his chest. He reaches out and then stops, hand hovering overtop Fjord’s. “May I touch?”

“Yeah, ’course.” He drops his hand and bites his tongue at the little jolt of electricity that runs through him at the gentle touch of Caleb’s fingers on his sternum. It doesn’t feel anything like Jester trying to feel him up on the _Squall Eater_. He thinks he should be surprised by that, but he isn’t.

Caleb shuts his eyes. His lashes are dark against his cheeks, like they’ve been dusted with kohl. Darker than his hair, which curls reddish-gold against his studious brow. A moment later there’s a wash of warmth through him and Fjord gasps instinctively, ribs lifting on an inhale as if summoned forward by Caleb’s hand.

“Easy,” Caleb soothes, eyes still shut. His other hand find’s Fjord’s arm and holds him there, gentle. “Just a little detect magic, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sure. Not a problem.” Fjord’s voice is a little hoarse in his own ears. He slips his arm from Caleb’s hold and catches his hand instead, thumb rubbing against his dry knuckles. “Do what you gotta do.”

A little time passes. No more than a few minutes, though it feels much longer. Fjord catches himself staring at the soft little wrinkle between Caleb’s eyebrows and tears his gaze away to the fire. Frumpkin is a flat little puddle on the hearth, vaguely cat-shaped, and appears to be asleep. He’s not sure why, but he’s glad of it—somehow this moment feels intensely private, and the intrusion of anyone, even Frumpkin, would break the spell.

At last Caleb sighs and drops his hand. It takes effort not to sigh as well. “Find anything?”

“As usual, you remain a mystery to me, my friend,” Caleb says, though his voice is fond rather than irritated. “Perhaps if you were inclined to tell me more about these dreams we could discuss a game plan.”

“A… a what?”

“A game plan. Something to combat these effects you are feeling, or a way for you to escape this… pact.” Caleb taps his fingers against his chin. “You said you woke up with the sword beside you, on the beach, and you’ve had powers ever since, _ja_?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“It seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it? For a man to sign a binding document without being aware of it?” There’s a slight touch of humor to Caleb’s mouth, inviting Fjord to smile with him, but his chest feels too hollow to make the attempt.

“It might be unfair, but it’s what I’m stuck with. And if I don’t figure out how to… to _appease_ this thing, I might be killed. Or worse, he’ll take my powers away and I won’t be worth shit anymore.”

Caleb flinches. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Well, y’know, I…” Fjord gestures lamely at nothing in particular. “I’m not any use to the group if I’m dead in the water, am I? No point in sticking around if I’m just a liability.” He forces out a cramped chuckle. “‘Spose Yeza and I could get more friendly. Play at keepin’ house for you lot…”

“Fjord, you are talking nonsense.” Caleb takes him forcefully by the wrist and drags him over to the settee. “Now you listen to me,” he says once they’re settled, sitting facing each other with their knees clacking together under the lap quilt, “there is not going to be any _playing house_. There is not going to be any _liability_ bullshit. We’re going to figure this out, we’re going to fix this. And if all else fails, I will teach you magic myself—there is no power in the world that cannot be achieved with a little hard work and determination. You may not be able to flick your sword in and of existence out but I’ll wager it still cuts deep if you wield it correctly, yes?”

A bit shamefaced, Fjord nods, tensile emotion clinging to the back of his throat. “I just… it’ll take time. Years, maybe, to catch up to the rest of you—”

“This is not a race,” Caleb says sternly. He regards Fjord closely for a moment and then sighs, reaching out with both hands. Fjord takes them, for lack of any other ideas, and tries not to yelp with surprise as he’s drawn into a hug.

“Cay—”

“Hush, you ridiculous man,” Caleb murmurs. His skinny arms barely wrap all the way around Fjord’s shoulders, but his grip is tenacious, and Fjord lets himself sink into it, lets himself breathe in Caleb’s warm, sleepy scent, the gentle musk at the crook of his neck. “This is not the end, dear heart, but the beginning.”

Fjord’s chest feels like it’s going to burst open. Not in a _there’s a sphere from an eldritch god inside of you_ sort of way, but a _he cares for me and it feels incredible_ way. “Cay,” he says again, stifled by Caleb’s wiry shoulder. He folds his arms around Caleb’s waist as best he can and holds on tight. “I… appreciate you, too.”

He feels Caleb smile against the shorn hair behind his ear. “Callback?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Caleb gives him a gentle squeeze and lets him go, and Fjord tries not to be visibly disappointed about it. “We promised we’d make it work, way back when,” he says quietly, folding their hands together for good measure. “And we will. We’ll make it work.”

“We’ll make it work.” Fjord sighs a great gout of tension from his lungs and lets his body respond to gravity, pitching forward slightly into their foreheads rest together. If Caleb is surprised by it he doesn’t show it, only smiles and gives Fjord’s hands a squeeze. “Caleb, d’you think…”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been askin’ around a bit, and uh. The Wildmother seems… interesting.”

“She has certainly been kind to us,” Caleb agrees. His tone is light and studied, like he’s trying to keep any shade of bias from his voice.

“Do you think she would…” He falters again, unsure how to voice the sentiment he’s been ruminating on all week. “It seems unfair to ask for her favor. All I have to offer is a busted sword and a pact I want out of.”

Caleb hums and rubs his thumb against Fjord’s knuckles. “I don’t know much about the gods. But it seems to me that any of them would be lucky to have a follower such as you.”

“Flatterer,” Fjord mumbles.

“Hmm. Just being forthright.”

“I’ll… speak to Caduceus in the morning. Ask what’s… required.” It’s an odd sensation, having some semblance of a plan. It’s weak, but it’s more than he had an hour ago, and he can’t deny the warmth of relief in his breast. “Thank you for your counsel, Caleb.”

“Anytime.”

“And… and speakin’ of forthright.” He gnaws on his lower lip, not quite meeting Caleb’s eye. “I know I haven’t been exactly… honest with you. And with the group. And I know that you know about it, and I’m not sure why you haven’t asked, gods know you’re painfully curious about almost everythin’ else—”

“You’re rambling,” Caleb interrupts gently. “Fjord, please do not feel you have to tell me anything you are not ready to—”

“This ain’t my real accent.”

The room is very quiet. So quiet he can hear Frumpkin’s steady, slumbering purr over the sound of crackling coals.

“I know,” Caleb says at last. His eyes are dark and serious, reflecting burnished gold instead of their usual cobalt blue. “You’ve… slipped, a few times.”

“Yeah. I, uh. It wasn’t a conscious decision, really, more of an emotional one. This is what… Vandran sounded like. I guess it was my way of keepin’ him close.” Fjord laughs a little, trying to shake the nerves rattling around his chest like grains of sand in a timepiece. “Damn, it’s hard to switch, now.”

“Take your time.” Caleb nibbles his lower lip and watches Fjord’s mouth like he’s waiting for a snake to come out of it. Or something less sinister, if Fjord’s private hopeful musings are even remotely accurate.

Fjord closes his eyes and takes a breath or two. “This is—this is what I really sound like,” he says in his own voice, with his own tongue. It’s strangely difficult to force the words out, but once he has, a weight on his chest he hadn’t known was there breaks free and drifts away into nothing. “Nothing special, really. I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to, to switch back. I guess in a strange way it would feel like he was gone.”

“Vandran?” Caleb supplies. His voice is very soft.

“Yeah.”

“Well. Caduceus did say he was… alive, yes?”

“Yeah. Making amends, he said.”

“Then that’s something. Something hopeful.”

Caleb’s hands are still in his, Fjord realizes. He doesn’t seem discomfited by it, a miracle in itself, and Fjord is in no hurry to release him. “Thank you for bein’—for being understanding.”

“It’s no hardship,” Caleb demures softly. “You are allowed to need a listening ear sometimes, Fjord.”

“I don’t want to be a burden on anyone—”

“Pfft. Not at all.” Caleb pats his hand and sits back a little, as if to signal the conversation is winding down. Fjord tries to hide his disappointment. “I am here almost every night before bed, sometimes later. If you need to talk, or just someone to sit quietly with, you are always welcome.”

“Thank you, Caleb. I appreciate that.” Feeling a bit like he’s being dismissed, Fjord makes to rise from the couch and depart. But before he can do more than shift his weight on the cushions, he feels a touch on his leg and looks down to see Frumpkin braced with one paw on his shin, eyes wide and luminous in the candlelight. He reaches down to scritch behind his ear and Caleb makes an apologetic noise in the back of his throat.

“I can have him poof elsewhere—”

“Nonsense. He’s fine.” He takes a tentative breath in, waiting for the tickle, but it never comes. “Did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make him… not allergenic…?”

“I did nothing,” Caleb declares, straight-faced. “He is a fey cat, that’s all. Perhaps your allergies were only psychosomatic.”

“Hmm.” Instead of pressing him, Fjord turns his attention back to Frumpkin. The cat permits the petting for another minute or two, and then hops up directly into Fjord’s lap, turning about thrice before settling down in a snug ball of fluff.

“Well,” Caleb says lightly, laughter in his voice, “it looks like you’re stuck here now. Those are the rules: never move a sleeping cat.”

“Is that so.” Tentative, Fjord strokes his hand along Frumpkin’s spine. Almost immediately the cat begins to purr thunderously.

Caleb picks up his book, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Fjord, helpless, relieved, still strung with a strange, intimate tension, sinks deeper into the couch and lets it happen.

He wakes, disoriented, some time later. Frumpkin is gone and he tipped over on his side at some point, stretched out on the full length of the couch with his knees bent slightly to allow for his height. There’s a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him that wasn’t there before, and when he tucks his nose into it he can smell Caleb: old books, new leather, the faint acrid musk of sleep sweat. Fjord buries his face in the blanket and goes back to sleep.

//

It becomes his new habit, over the next few days, to drop by the library when he can’t sleep. The slightest hint of insomnia, a few minutes tossing and turning, and he’ll eagerly throw in the towel, tiptoeing upstairs when everyone else has retired to peruse the stacks or simply sit by the fire and stroke Frumpkin until the purring lulls him into a doze.

Caleb isn’t always there when he arrives, but the door to his room resides behind the tight-wound spiral staircase that leads up to the tower library, and Fjord finds that usually a minute or two either Caleb or Frumpkin will join him. The peace they cultive there in that room together builds in him like layers of rich, earthy sediment at the bottom of a river. Gives him courage, and calm, and begins to open the parts of him he’s kept closed off for so long.

He tells him about Vandran, more than he’s ever told anyone since the morning he washed up on the beach outside of Nicodranas. He tells him about Sabien—about their difficult boyhood, their fraught adolescence, the shy passions Fjord bore for him. He tells him about the sword.

Caleb is a very good listener. He is slow to return the favor, but now and then something will slip out, and gradually Fjord begins to piece together the greater tapestry of his past. It’s a cruel and unkind picture, but Caleb seems to silently appreciate Fjord’s quiet acceptance.

As if Fjord could bear any ill-will towards him now.

Other things that have been simmering beneath the surface start to rise under the auspicious calm of life in Rosohna. They have time to ruminate on shared experiences, to relive quiet smiles and sideways glances in slow motion. Hours to wile away in one another’s company, in contented quiet or in shared study, or in conversation. And time warms them like the sun on new grass, as little seedlings that have long lain dormant finally beginning to sprout and put down roots.

One evening, they are chatting idly as they browse the shelves, side by side as they hunt down a particular tome that Essek had promised would be there: a book of basic cantrips that Caleb wants to impart to Fjord during their downtime. Caleb is in jovial spirits, and Fjord finds it infectious. He’s not sure whether it was the wine with dinner—a gift sent over from Professor Waccoh for a fetch job well done—or something else, but he’s happy to go with it, laughter bubbling like champagne through his veins.

Which is why, when he spies the book they’re looking for just above Caleb’s head, he doesn’t think twice before reaching out for it, even though it brings him in close behind Caleb. He doesn’t directly think the word _flirtatious_ , but that bubbly-champagne feeling suffuses him with heady warmth as he steadies himself with a hand to Caleb’s arm and plucks the book from the shelf.

The quiet that subsumes the room is instantaneous and Fjord quickly comes back into his right mind. Fjord’s face flames as he brings the book to his chest, wondering if he’s made some terrible error—he’s practically plastered to Caleb’s back, is close enough to hear Caleb’s _heart_ pounding in his chest.

“Sorry,” he begins, moving to step away. Caleb glances up at him from under his lashes and Fjord stops in his tracks.

“You found it?” is all he says, like they’re discussing the weather. Like his ears aren’t flushed a brighter red than his hair.

“I think so.” Fjord taps a claw against the hardbound cover and holds it out. Maybe he hasn’t ruined everything after all. “Does this look like the right one?”

“Let’s examine.” Caleb moves to take it out of his grip, but Fjord doesn’t relax his hold. _Can’t_ relax it. He feels frozen in place by the thrumming of his own pulse as Caleb looks up at him, pinned discreetly between Fjord and the shelf. “Or… not…” His voice trails off into nothing at the touch of Fjord’s knuckle to his chin. He’s a bit stubbly, still not quite in the habit of shaving regularly, and he looks tired and soft and warm as he gazes up at Fjord, like a well-loved blanket that Fjord wants to wrap himself up in. “Fjord?”

“Is it all right—” Fjord begins. The rest of the sentence gets stuck in his throat.

Caleb is silent, but his eyes speak volumes; they draw him in until he’s caging Caleb in against the shelves, following the quirk of his smile to bring their lips together. _Then_ he finally makes a sound: a soft sigh of relief, of wanting. Fjord’s chest constricts and he cups Caleb’s nape with one hand, just holding him.

Fjord breaks the kiss first because he forgets to breathe. When he withdraws to gasp for air, Caleb is laughing at him quietly, rosy-cheeked, a lock of hair escaping from its short queue. Fjord tucks it reflexively behind his ear and Caleb sighs.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” Fjord admits. His hand lingers, and Caleb catches it with his own, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the knuckles. Fjord stomach swoops, and he suddenly sympathizes with all the swooning maidens in the trashy books Beau and Jester like to read. “I hope I didn’t, um, overstep…”

“Not at all.” Caleb’s voice is hoarse, like he’s been asleep for a very long time. By instinct, their fingers tangle together, palm to palm; Fjord can feel the slight texture of the scar on Caleb’s palm matching his own.

He kisses him again, because he can, and because Caleb’s inviting smile is impossible to resist. Caleb releases his hand at last, only to reach up and twine his wiry arms around Fjord’s neck, drawing him close, coaxing more of Fjord’s weight to pin him to the bookshelves. Tentative, Fjord complies. A low hum of approval vibrates through Caleb’s chest, and heat blooms in Fjord’s gut. He worms one arm between Caleb and the stiff, unforgiving spines of the books and licks into his mouth, deep and wet, met with equal fervor.

Caleb’s lips are soft and weathered against his own, his chin rough with a day’s worth of stubble. It’s _unbearable._ Fjord gives up trying to hold back and kisses him like he’s drowning, tastes him like he’s the sweetest drink of water after weeks in the desert. Heat pools and settles in his belly. Burns in his cheeks. Caleb’s hand grazes the point of his ear, and Fjord groans, trying not to startle at the soft whimper Caleb lets slip in counterpoint.

A little shift of weight and Fjord becomes keenly aware of the growing hardness poking into his thigh. Caleb _wants_ him. The very idea is like a bolt of electricity to his nervous system. It crackles down his limbs, lifting the hair on his arms, forcing the urgent pulse of blood to his groin. He mouths at the slope of Caleb’s neck, breathing him in. It would only take a little sidestep here, a press of the thigh there, to take the low simmer between them and turn it up to a boil. He hovers on that edge for a moment or two, fingering the hem of Caleb’s sweater.

Downstairs there’s the sudden slam of a door and Beau’s voice rising in irritation, quickly followed by Jester’s scattered giggles as she flees the scene of whatever petty crime she’s just committed. They don’t spring apart, but the kiss does break, and they stare at one another with matching pent-up laughter vibrating like a plucked string in the air.

In his arms, Caleb softens and eases back. His faces flames with color and his lips are swollen, gleaming slightly with saliva. The pit of Fjord’s stomach clenches. “Perhaps we should… the book…”

“ _Oh_. Yes.” Fjord withdraws, fumbling the book from where he’d had it awkwardly clasped behind Caleb’s back. “Is this—”

“ _Ja_ , perfect, this is the one I wanted.” Caleb takes Fjord’s wrist and squeezes gently, soothing. “Shall we take a look together?”

Fjord takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Despite his words, his feet feel glued to the floor. He watches Caleb move to the couch as if in a dream, blood still pounding sluggishly in his temples, the heavy sheaf of arousal slowly unspooling from his shoulders and hips. Caleb sits, studious, unselfconscious despite the color in his cheeks, and opens the book. Fjord tugs his shirt straight and follows.

//

Despite the blush of desire humming through his veins, the evening drifts easily into concentration and shared study. After only a little trial and error Fjord is able to focus on Caleb’s tutelage enough to conjure dancing lights. Caleb is generous with his praise, encouraging him warmly at each new success, and Fjord is awash with the pleasant buzz of a job well done.

He isn’t sure what’s supposed to happen next. He knows what he’s _read_ , or daydreamed, but reality feels just out of step with the fantasy, like he’s dancing to a tune he’s never heard before, unsure of who’s supposed to be leading. It’s quite late, and they’re both stifling yawns, but he doesn’t want to go to bed. Doesn’t want to leave this little private bubble they’ve created of warmth and light. He catches himself staring at the curve of Caleb’s cheek and wonders if it would be all right if he kissed him there. Then Caleb looks up and Fjord jerks away, training his eyes on the low-burning hearth.

“Thank you,” he says, before Caleb can speak. “For, ah, takin’ the time. You’re a good teacher.”

“ _You_ are a quick learner.” Caleb rests a hand on his shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze. “We’ll have you casting fireballs in no time.”

Fjord quirks a smile and drops his eyes to his lap. The warmth of Caleb’s nearness isn’t quite enough to shake the quiet fear in the pit of his stomach, but he resolutely walls it off, shoves it behind boxes and crates until he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

There’s a slight brush of something against his hair—a hand? A kiss?—and Caleb stands. “It’s late. We should retire to bed.”

 _Together?_ Fjord wonders, and immediately blushes at the thought. The flush of fresh arousal has dissipated, and he’s suddenly unsure how he could have been so bold. “Yeah, that’s. That’s probably a good idea. I think I’ll stay up just a bit more, get some more studyin’ under my belt.”

“All right.” Caleb gives him a close look, as if searching for something in his face. Then he smiles and delicately, almost self-consciously, reaches out and brushes a stray thread of grey hair back from Fjord’s temple. “Goodnight, _liebling_.”

“Night.” Fjord watches him go, blushing a little. He’s never heard Caleb use that word before, and he makes a note to look it up later.

In the meantime, he fingers the symbol hanging around his neck and cracks open the book again.

//

His dreams that night are foggy and confusing. Nothing so blatant as a great yellow eye dragging him to the depths of the ocean, but a cold, grey fever state, feeling the heavy weight of thunder off on the horizon. He can sense a presence nearby, but can’t quite make out who or what it is through the thick mist that clouds his mind. When he wakes he hardly feels rested, and while the others set off to meet with the Professor, he complains of a headache and retreats to the baths to try and relax.

The house feels incredibly silent when he climbs out an hour later, skin soft and prunish. It’s a bit… discomfiting. Like he’s standing in the midst of one of his own dreams, strangled by silence and nothingness. But he’s determined to put into practice some of the techniques he learned last night, so he fights the lethargy shackling his limbs to dress in a loose shirt and trousers and makes for the library.

He makes it to the top of the stairs and stops short. Through the door, which has been left ajar, he can see Frumpkin napping on the couch, though his master is nowhere to be seen. Fjord’s heart is suddenly in his throat as the events of the night before, so far repressed in an effort to keep from overthinking things, come rushing back all at once. He slips inside the room as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb the cat’s slumber. Frumpkin’s tail twitches, but he doesn’t wake, so Fjord grabs a few books and makes for the roof, hoping the breeze will help clear his head. He pretends not to notice when Frumpkin hops off the couch and follows.

From the roof he swears he can see all of Rosohna spread out beneath him, a dappled dark quilt peppered with the glow of magical lights and smears of inky darkness where the shadows deepen and black. He boosts himself up onto one of the lower branches with the aid of a helpful ladder and sits with his back to the trunk. The wind ruffles his hair and tugs playfully at his shirt collar, and he can’t help smiling as his fingers trace the spine of the book in his lap.

Caduceus’ daylight jars make reading easy enough, but his eyes keep straying to the skyline. He can’t help wondering where the others are. Whether they’ve had any success in their errands—whether Caleb has managed to track down a reputable paper merchant.

His heart stammers a little in his chest. The memory of Caleb’s lips brings color to his cheeks, and he bites his lower lip as his eyes grow hazy and unfocused. Had he frightened him off, moving so quickly? He’d seemed to be enjoying it as much as Fjord; had left with some reluctance that morning, eyes lingering on Fjord as they prepared to step out into the street.

There’s a sudden scratching, scrabbling sound and he looks over the edge of the branch to see Frumpkin climbing the tree with surprising alacrity. He makes it to the branch next to the one Fjord is on and shoves his head into Fjord’s shoulder.

“Hey there.” Wrinkling his nose, just in case, Fjord reaches out and scritches him behind the ear. “How’d you know I was thinkin’ about Caleb, huh?”

“ _Mrr_.” Frumpkin braces himself, tail twitching, and jumps right into Fjord’s lap. His claws dig in a little and Fjord winces, trying to hold still.

“Ow—fuck, easy! Damn cat…”

The ladder creaks against the bough. Fjord goes still. A moment later Caleb’s head pops up, a bit windblown, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “What were you saying about my cat?”

Fjord startles and feels his face go hot. “Oh. Sorry, didn’t, uh… didn’t see you there…”

Caleb just laughs and sticks out his hand to be helped up.

It takes a little bit of shuffling to and fro, but eventually Fjord is settled with his back to the tree and Caleb is perched between his legs, kicking his ankles in the air like a boy as he peers over the edge to the garden below. “Caduceus has done quite a wonder with the rooftop, hasn’t he.”

“And attracted the attention of all the neighbors.” Fjord pins his eyes to Frumpkin, who is leaping from branch to branch high above their heads. He can’t quite bring himself to look at Caleb. He’s sitting so close, knee nearly brushing Fjord’s inner thigh. His hand on the rough branch is easily within holding distance. Fjord’s palm itches.

“I think we were probably going to do that anyway,” Caleb remarks. “What are you doing up here, if I may ask?”

“Wanted a view while I studied.” He fingers the spine of the book tucked inside his tunic. “Didn’t end up doing too much studying, though.” He chances a look at Caleb, who is looking back. Eyes sparking with banked amusement. “I miss the sun.”

The smile hiding behind Caleb’s beard mellows into understanding. “It’s different here, it’s true. But I think we can do a lot of good.”

“I agree,” Fjord says without hesitating.

“Really? You seemed… unsure, before.”

“I’m always unsure, of many things. But never unsure of _you_.” Fjord gathers his courage and reaches out. The scar on his palm seems to tingle, and he’s unsure if it’s real or psychosomatic as Caleb reaches out and clasps his hand readily. “If you say we’re gonna change the world, I believe you.”

Caleb lets out a broken little huff. “I don’t know if I deserve your faith, Fjord.”

Fjord just shrugs. It’s easier to look at their joined hands than at Caleb’s face, but he looks anyway, eyes tracing over the soft mouth, the intimate crease between his eyes. “Well, you have it anyway. It’s not like I have faith in much else right now.”

Caleb’s eyes light up. “Oh! That reminds me.” He begins patting his coat, feeling over the multitude of hidden pockets sewn into its lining, and finally fishes out a small object that hangs by a string. “Give me your hand.”

Fjord reaches out, hand still warm from Caleb’s touch, and into the palm of his scarred hand Caleb puts a necklace. Simple, carved with wood and daubed clumsily with paint, the cord a simple leather thong. “What is it?”

“I asked Caduceus for… symbols of protection. This was the best he could do, but it’s a start.”

Fjord turns the shape over in his hands. It’s a wreath, he sees now, licked with little spots of pink and green and yellow like flowers in spring. A rudimentary staff bisects the circle, like a shepherd’s crook, twined with vines in little stripes of green. It feels too light in his hand, small and unlikely to do much against the might of Uk’atoa… but it warms him all the same.

“Thank you, Caleb. I appreciate… I appreciate it.”

Caleb’s eyes are soft and understanding. “Would you like help putting it on?”

“Sure.” He hands it back over and bows his head slightly, making room for Caleb to reach behind his neck with the clasp. The position puts him at eye level with Caleb’s chest, and he swallows as gentle fingers twiddle at his nape with the fastening. Caleb has taken to dressing in the local fashion, and the cut of his shirt is lower than he usually favors, exposing a sliver of freckled sternum and licks of orange-red hair, bisected by a rough leather cord. Fjord has seen the symbol around his neck before—had once even wondered if the rune of a closed eye was related to Uk’atoa—but now that he knows its significance it only draws a blanket of calm over his shoulders. The illusion of being hidden from prying eyes just by proximity is… good.

“There.” Caleb runs a hand over his head quickly as he draws away, a benediction. The Wildmother’s symbol rests against his sternum when he’s done, framed by the rumpled plackets of his shirt. Right over the place where the eye had opened in his dreams. Fjord shivers and covers the carving with one hand. “All right?”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” He sits up from his recumbent position and finds himself nearly nose to nose with Caleb. Dark blue eyes drop to his lips, and Fjord’s heart stutters in his chest as he takes a breath. Caleb leans in.

A door slams beneath them and Fjord jerks back so quickly he nearly smacks his head on the trunk of the tree. Caleb, visibly flushed, tugs self-consciously at his scarf. “They’ve returned, it seems.”

“Cayyyleb!” Jester’s voice rings cheerfully from below. “Where did you go? We found a bookseller in the street, like, _right_ after you left—!”

“I am up here, Jester,” Caleb calls. He sends Fjord a rueful look and a low, murmured, “Later?” and swings one leg onto the ladder.

“Oh, hello Fjord! What were you two doing up there?” Jester asks slyly. She steadies the base of the ladder as Caleb picks his way down, Frumpkin clinging to his shoulder. “Fjord and Cay-leb sitting in a tree, K-I-S—”

“Yes, all right, that’s enough,” Caleb blusters. He reaches the bottom and ruffles her hair. “Tell me more about this bookseller.”

As soon as they’ve wandered off toward the door, Fjord scoots along the branch to reach the ladder himself. He has a sudden urge to take himself off to the library.

//

It takes Caleb a little while to join him, and Fjord spends the entire time pacing in front of the fire, wondering if he’d misread the situation entirely. He is appeased only somewhat by the appearance of Frumpkin, who nudges his way through the cracked-open door and winds his way around Fjord’s legs, miaowing plaintively until Fjord deigns to lavish the top of his head with pats.

The door swings open sharply and Fjord rockets upright, hot in the face for reasons he can’t quite articulate to himself. Maybe part of him is expecting it to be anyone else. But it isn’t anyone else—it’s Caleb, dressed down to a stonewashed lavender tunic and deep charcoal trousers, hair curling softly around his shoulders. It’s grown long since their days at sea, at odds with the fresh-faced stubble he now wears. Fjord thinks he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

“Hello,” he says, like an utter fool.

“ _Hallo_.” Caleb shuts the door behind himself with quiet deliberation. The click of the latch is like the _crack_ of Nott’s pistol going off in his ear. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

Fjord just shrugs, clumsy with the ache of want in his chest. It’s a hunger like nothing he’s ever experienced before, not even the strange, otherworldly emptiness he feels when he dreams of Uk’atoa and the ocean’s unforgiving depths. “Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Caleb’s eyes are dark, the blue swallowed up with pupil, but they seem to glow as he moves toward him, reaching out to rest a hand over Fjord’s sternum where the Wildmother’s symbol makes a small lump under his shirt. Fjord shuts his eyes, fragile as spun glass, and bites his lip at the brush of Caleb’s lips against his cheek.

“Nervous, _liebling_?” he whispers.

Fjord huffs a self-conscious laugh, hardly more than a breath of air. “How could I not be?” His hand finds Caleb’s waist, trim beneath the intricate woven belt cinching his tunic in place, and rubs against the soft fabric hypnotically. “I wasn’t expecting… you. I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

“Nor I,” Caleb admits. He regards him from under studious brows. “You are hard to read, sometimes, Fjord. But you are not so stern and serious as you pretend to be—at least not anymore.”

“Neither are you.”

Fjord drops his hand as Caleb steps away, watches him drift past to peruse the shelves. There’s a weight to his movement, a pull, like all his focus is bent in Fjord’s direction, even though his eyes are ostensibly elsewhere. His hands graze the spines without quite landing, and when Fjord draws near enough to feel the heat of him, his shoulders are soft and unsurprised.

“I enjoy your company,” Caleb says to the books in front of him. “You are… easy to be with.”

Fjord hums and noses a kiss into his hair. “Sweet-talker.” Last night he’d been befuddled, caught off guard, but in the light of day everything seems clear and earnest. He lifts a hand and braces it against the books like it’s been magnetized. The other finds its way back to Caleb’s waist and holds him there gently. “Have I ever told you you clean up nice?”

Caleb is no longer even pretending to examine the books on offer. “Maybe not with words.” He tips his chin toward his chest, exposing the pale freckled nape of his neck. “Your eyes are quite revealing.”

“Well. Guess there’s no harm in sayin’ it with words, too.” He bends and touches his lips to Caleb’s neck, barely brushing the skin. Caleb sighs. Out of the corner of his eyes, Fjord watches Caleb’s hand go white-knuckled on the edge of the shelf. He smiles and kisses him again. And again. Just soft, teasing presses along his neck, up behind his ear, as Caleb breathes and slowly, ever so slowly leans back against him.

Fjord sucks a little mark into his pale skin and rubs a hand over Caleb’s belly. Coaxing him nearer. He’s starting to get hard in his trousers, but Caleb doesn’t pull away—just groans aloud as Fjord mouths at his neck and squeezes at his narrow waist with both hands.

“Fjord—”

“Yeah?”

Caleb reaches back blindly, patting about until he can grab a fistful of Fjord’s hair and direct him to his lips. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, craning over his shoulder to kiss him askew, but Fjord makes a valiant effort, cupping Caleb’s jaw in place as he licks into his mouth. Caleb hums and arches his back, conveniently pressing his backside into Fjord’s crotch. Fjord’s grip spasms on his hip and he grinds forward instinctively, seeking pressure.

Caleb moans and nips at his lip. “As lovely as this is, I think there are more comfortable places to do this than a bookcase,” he says, eyes already dark, lips swollen with kisses. Fjord gives him one more, cheeky, and steps away.

“Right. Sorry.” He hums as Caleb brushes past him, deliberately grazing a hand along his hip, and moves to the couch. A snap of his fingers and Frumpkin poofs away. “Didn’t care for an audience?”

Caleb snorts. “Not particularly. Are you coming or not?”

Fjord bites back the puerile joke that comes instinctively to mind and moves to join him. It’s a little unnerving meeting him head-on; but Caleb is warm and inviting, pulling him immediately into an embrace, and all of Fjord’s anxieties fade away.

Caleb’s lips are soft and warm, lined with the slightest bit of bristle where he missed a spot shaving. Fjord licks softly at his philtrum and Caleb opens his mouth, welling their tongues together with a wet, slick noise. Fjord moans, and his hand drifts higher up Caleb’s thigh. His new trousers are so _soft_ to the touch, so inviting—there’s a slight quilted pattern, subtle, that invites the creep of his fingers higher, higher—

Caleb hums, kissing around his teeth, and draws away. Fjord tries to chase him but he lays back, head propped on the cushion at the other end of the settee, knees drawn up to drape his legs across Fjord’s lap. He means to follow—he _wants_ to follow him always, anywhere, to the ends of the Dynasty and beyond—but something in him hesitates, and the warm, inviting smile on Caleb’s face falters.

“All right?”

“It’s been,” Fjord starts to say, and draws up short. It’s been more than just _a while_ —his experience with this sort of thing is incredibly limited. Just awkward teenage fumbling with Sabien before things went sour, and… well, he doesn’t particularly count Avantika, but maybe he doesn’t get to decide that.

“Hey.” Caleb reaches out and tangles their fingers together, rough and comforting. “It’s all right, _bärchen_. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

 _I want to do it all, with you_ , Fjord thinks. _That’s the problem._

“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” he says, and maybe that’s even _more_ embarrassing than what he didn’t say, but it’s the truth. And it’s worth it for the soft look on Caleb’s face. The soft touch of his lips when he brings Fjord’s palm close enough to kiss. Fjord hooks his fingers in Caleb’s braces and leans over him.

“You could never,” Caleb breathes. He jerks a little, almost instinctive, face flaming red as the lump in his trousers makes itself known against Fjord’s stomach. “Come on and kiss me, sailor. Before my lips get cold.”

Fjord chokes on a laugh and obeys. Caleb’s hands slide into his hair immediately, tugging at the longer strands on top before migrating to his nape, where his shaggy undercut has grown to a little point. Fjord hums and licks into his mouth, tastes the silky inner lip and the hungry warmth of his tongue. It’s a bit of a tight fit, but he manages to get an arm around him, wedged between Caleb’s ribs and the back of the settee, and hums his approval when Caleb drapes a knee over his hip.

Fjord can’t tear himself away. His free hand rubs up Caleb’s front to massage his chest through his clothes as he kisses him open-mouthed, lips slicking together, chin to stubbled chin as his pendant slips from his shirt and sways in the empty space between them.

“Bit of a tight fit,” Caleb gasps when they part. His lips are berry-red and wet, inviting another kiss, and another after that, and finally Fjord pulls back and buries a soft, needy sound in the sweaty crook of Caleb’s neck. “ _Liebling_ …”

Fjord sits up a bit, swallowing. He doesn’t want to traipse all the way down the spiral staircase to Caleb’s room—not a far trek by any stretch, but anything more than a few steps feels interminable to him right now. Then he glances past the settee to the hearth, and the thick sheepskin rug laid before the warm coals.

“Would you… it’s cliche, I think, but…”

Caleb props himself up a bit and follows Fjord’s gaze. And grins. “I see. Yes, _bitte_ , ravish me on the rug in front of the fireplace—Fjord!”

He yelps and grabs at Fjord’s shoulders as Fjord hefts him into his arms, legs going belatedly around his waist. His eagerness makes him clumsy, but Caleb doesn’t seem to mind. His laughter is gentle, placated with a kiss to Fjord’s brow, the bridge of his nose. His lips. Fjord shifts his grip a little and gasps as he feels Caleb’s dick through his clothes, and Caleb smirks.

“Don’t drop me, sailor,” he whispers, and another surge of desire crawls up Fjord’s spine and sinks its claws into his nape.

“Never,” he swears. He nudges a kiss to the tender skin beneath Caleb’s jaw. “Hold on to me.”

Caleb wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him as Fjord carries him to the rug and bears him down upon it. His back complains a little—just a little—but he’ll never admit it, covers the slight wince with a hungry groan and a damp, eager kiss. Warmer now, relaxed, Fjord braces himself on his elbows and lets Caleb draw him down with legs around his waist as the slow rhythm of their kisses suffuses throughout their bodies, driving the subtle rocking back and forth their hips. And when Caleb moves to kiss his throat instead, the last vestiges of reticence dissolve and Fjord _growls_ , rocks his hips down into Caleb’s with purpose.

“Oh,” Caleb whispers at the shell of his ear, “you liked that.”

Without waiting for a response, Caleb grinds up. His dick is hard as a poker against Fjord’s own, hot even through their clothes—Fjord gasps and finally succumbs to the temptation to grab his arse with both hands and guide the rut of his hips. Caleb whimpers and buries his face into the crook of his neck.

“Fjord…”

“Lovely. You’re… Cay, I’m—”

“Easy, easy.” Caleb grabs his shoulders and with only a little effort, rolls them until their positions are reversed, Fjord on his back and Caleb astride his hips, as proud as a prince. Fjord grabs at his hips just for something to hang onto and Caleb smiles, stroking his wrists, then forearms, then bracing himself on Fjord’s chest as he leans down to brush their noses together.

“Hey.” Easy and slow, Fjord lifts his chin and kisses him. As if rewarding him, Caleb rocks forward in his lap and back again. Even through their clothes, the feel of his answering hardness against Fjord’s own is intoxicating. And yet not enough.

With slow movements, making sure Caleb is comfortable, Fjord reaches down and tugs at the laces of his tunic. Caleb murmurs encouragement and kisses his brow as his collarbones are exposed, delicate and freckled, then his chest, his belly, wrinkled at the waist from his bent-over position. And then he’s bare, tunic and shirt open to the waist, inviting Fjord’s touch. He drags his claws delicately through the hair on Caleb’s chest and he’s rewarded with a sigh and a warm wriggle in his lap.

Caleb tugs at Fjord’s shirt, freeing it from his belt, and pauses. “May I undress you, _bärchen_?”

“I thought I was the one doing the ravishing here,” Fjord teases. But he folds his arms behind his head nonetheless and Caleb grins, wolfish, as he pushes Fjord’s shirt up under his arms and bends to kiss his sternum.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Fjord is finally able to tug free of his shirt entirely. Caleb, delighted, is committed to kissing every inch of exposed skin, but Fjord’s patience quickly runs out and he paws at Caleb’s hips, urging him down to kiss his mouth instead. Caleb is smiling even as their tongues well together, and Fjord’s chest constricts. He didn’t know. He didn’t know it would be _like this_.

“Fjord,” Caleb whispers, flushed and panting as Fjord manhandles him onto his side and thrusts a leg between his. The bony aperture of his hip is perfect against his aching cock, throbbing inside his clothes—he can feel Caleb’s own hardness against his upper thigh, and it would make _sense_ to strip him bare, to see the pale, flushed expanse of his freckled skin against the soft rug, lit with the subtle red-orange glow of the tamped-down coals; but he is so very hungry, aching in the deepest core of himself, and anyway his fingers are too clumsy with wanting to be of use.

With a muffled groan, Fjord smears a kiss to the side of Caleb’s neck that soon becomes a nibble, then a suck. He grapples at Caleb’s backside and ruts their hips together as he worries a berry-bright bruise to the crux of his throat and a deeply-buried part of him crows in delight at the evidence he leaves behind.

“ _Ja, bitte_ ,” Caleb breathes in his ear. His eyes are bright and wild, the clutch of his fingers in Fjord’s hair impossible to resist as he draws him in for another kiss. It’s rough and biting, and strangely tender. Caleb’s workworn hands clasp at his shoulders and he keens. “ _Fjord—_ ”

In perfect silence, Caleb’s back arches on the rug and Fjord can feel him come—the hot pulse and slow, suffusing damp that creeps through his trousers. Fjord shudders and leans his forehead against Caleb’s as arousal ricochets up his spine like a chain reaction, lighting him up from the inside. His cock jerks in his trousers and he bites his lip savagely to keep from crying out—to keep from biting into Caleb’s neck, though a snarly, possessive part of him aches to.

“Oh…” Caleb sighs, a long, shivering exhale. He works one hand between their bodies and cups Fjord’s dick through the fabric. The brief twist of embarrassment Fjord felt at going off so quickly dissolves at the dark bloom of satisfaction in Caleb’s eyes. “Lovely.”

Fjord ducks his head and kisses Caleb’s neck gently, over the livid mark he’d left with his teeth. “All right?”

“Mmhm. Perfect.”

In exhausted tandem, Fjord rolls onto his back and Caleb follows, sprawling across Fjord’s chest like a contented cat. He’s so comfortable, warm to his bones, that he doesn’t even mind the stickiness in his smallclothes, the sweat still beading on his upper lip and under his arms. With hands that feel like putty, Fjord strokes Caleb’s spine, up and down as they catch their breath.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks after a little while, once the heady buzz of orgasm has faded enough to let the doubt creep in.

Caleb props himself up sluggishly on one elbow to get a good look at him. His brow still gleams with sweat and his hair is a damp, tangled mess, almost as red as the livid mark on his throat. He’s smiling. “Not at all,” he says with soft finality. He leans down and kisses Fjord slowly, shallow, each press of his lips a silent platitude. Fjord swallows a moan and holds him close.

“I’m sorry about—” he begins, but Caleb stops him with a stern look.

“Whatever you’re about to apologize for, it isn’t necessary.” He sits up on his knees and touches the bite mark. Fjord wonders if it aches, still. Whether it will bruise prettily by tomorrow. Caleb’s eyes drop to Fjord’s crotch. “Would you like me to take care of that?”

Fjord glances down and flushes at the wet spot on his trousers, and the half-chub straining valiantly just to one side. “I’m—no, that’s all right.”

“Half-orc stamina?” With a dirty smirk, Caleb holds out a hand. “Come. Let’s go clean ourselves up before dinner.”

With a reluctant sigh—the idea of doing anything other than cuddling up in a bed and napping for a year holds no appeal—Fjord accepts his hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet, as wobbly in the knees as a newborn foal. Then Caleb braces a hand against his chest and kisses him, rocking up on his toes to match his height, and Fjord sighs, relaxes into it.

“Later...” he begins, and stops, not entirely sure what he’s about to ask for.

Caleb drops to his heels and nods, eyes knowing, as he starts on the buttons of his shirt. “Later,” he promises. “I’ll leave my door unlocked.”

A little quiver of anticipation coils hotly in Fjord’s belly. “All right.”

//

Dinner passes in a strange haze. He isn’t even sure what he eats—the taste and texture of it is easily forgettable with Caleb across the table from him. Beau notices his preoccupation, but says nothing beyond a smirk and a knowing glance over her goblet. Fjord blushes and picks at his meal, still tasting the salt of Caleb’s skin in the back of his throat.

That evening, when he’s judged it late enough for propriety, he steals away to Caleb’s room and takes him to bed. It’s slower this time, more measured—they peel away each other’s clothes and lie together on top of the bedspread, bathed in the pale blue-green glow of the street lights outside, learning how to touch each other.

In the aftermath, Fjord lies curled around Caleb’s smaller form like a protective embankment built of solid earth, watching him sleep. His face is so much softer in repose, eyelids moving faintly in dreams. His breaths are deep and even, a lullaby all their own. Fjord curls a delicate finger into the tangled weft of Caleb’s hair across the pillow, and falls asleep.

He knows he’s dreaming as soon as it begins. It’s everything he’s feared for the last week, while he stuttered and struggled through the reprieve: the dark, crushing depths of the ocean, icy in his veins, in his lungs. The reverberating sound of Uk’atoa’s voice, if it can even be called a voice, roaring in his skull like surf pounding his bones to dust. Fjord struggles against the current for the first time since he first woke up on that beach with a sword beside him, kicking feebly against the strength of his patron, and his throat constricts around nothing, bubbles bursting out of him as he begins to drown.

He rockets awake as darkness takes his mind to a splitting weight on his chest and a ringing in his ears. The weight disappears and he turns onto his side just in time to choke up lungfuls of water onto the floor. He wipes his mouth when he’s done and his wrist comes away bloody.

“Fjord.” Caleb is kneeling beside him on the bed, breathing almost as heavily as Fjord is. His hair is even wilder than it was when they fell asleep, and his eyes are wide and terrified. “Fjord, are you all right?”

“I’m… I’m fine.” His voice sounds like he was gargling nails. He winces and presses a hand to his sternum. “Feels like a giant kicked me in the chest.”

“I’m sorry. You weren’t breathing, I couldn’t hear your heartbeat—I—”

The door flies open on its hinges and Fjord nearly swallows his tongue as a tall, hulking, misshapen shadow spills across the doorframe. Then his eyes catch up with his brain and he recognizes Caduceus, staff in hand and dressed in his bedclothes.

“I called for Caduceus,” Caleb whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Fjord rasps, a bit befuddled. It takes him a minute, lying there in his own sweat, Cad’s touch gentle on his sternum, before he realizes Caleb must be embarrassed at being seen in bed with him. Disappointment and stale fear curdle in his stomach, and he shudders, overcome with chill.

“If I didn’t know better,” Caduceus says at last, unperturbed by the state of Fjord or Caleb or the room, “I’d say you had just been pulled out of the water after being under for a good hour. It’s a good thing Mr. Caleb knew how to resuscitate you.”

“Jester showed me once,” Caleb says raggedly. He’s deathly pale beneath the feverish brights of his eyes, and he finally reaches out and grips Fjord’s hand with all his strength. “I have never been so glad to have learned something in my life.”

“You had another dream,” Caduceus surmises. He seems concerned, but not surprised. “Where is the charm you asked for, Mr. Caleb?”

Fjord’s hand goes to his neck. The little hand-carved symbol is gone. “I don’t—I had it on before bed—”

“Here.” Caleb fishes it out of the bedding. The leather cord had snapped, though Fjord can’t remember it having any weak spots. To his memory, the braid had been sturdy when Caleb tied it around his neck. Fjord slides the symbol free of the cord and rubs his thumb around the wreath’s rough-cut edge, but draws no comfort from it.

Caduceus leaves them after ensuring that Fjord is feeling better—physically, at least—but Fjord’s heart is still racing and he knows he isn’t going to sleep anymore tonight. He insists on changing the sheets and mopping saltwater off the floor, and then sits up in bed with Caleb’s head in his lap, stroking damp red hair back from his forehead as he stares into the hearth at the foot of the bed.

“I’m afraid,” he whispers.

Caleb reaches up and clasps his hand. “I won’t let him have you.”

Fjord smiles, but his eyes sting with grief. “And how will you stop him?”

There is no response. Caleb just holds him tightly, for hours, until finally exhaustion takes him and he relaxes into sleep. Fjord refuses to follow him and stays awake, staring into the fire. Trying to see a way out.

When he nods off just before dawn, still sitting upright, his dreams are murky and green and filled with dappled light. But he does not remember them.

//

Fjord wakes up with a terrible crick in his neck to a lapful of Frumpkin and a tray of breakfast sitting covered on the bedside table. And his sword, laying innocently in bed next to him. He groans and wipes the grit of restless sleep from his eyes. When he tries to return the sword to its pocket dimension, nothing happens. The lead ball in his stomach grows colder and heavier.

He can’t bring himself to eat anything, despite Frumpkin’s plaintive mews. Instead he sneaks through the quiet house to his own room, where he bathes and changes into fresh clothes before sojourning once more to the roof.

The ladder is still in place, but he ignores it in favor of climbing by hand. It isn’t terribly difficult. Caduceus and Jester and Yasha have all taken turns tending to the tree, working their home to fit around it rather than through it, and cleverly-hidden handholds aid his ascent until he’s over a hundred feet into the branches and well into the canopy.

He’s very nearly surprised into falling out of it when he boosts himself up another level and finds Caleb sitting there as pretty as you please, barefoot, dressed down to shirtsleeves and braces as he pours over a heavy old tome ridden with dust. Fjord turns his nose into his arm and sneezes, loudly. Caleb doesn’t even twitch.

“Took you long enough.”

“Sorry.” He grunts as he heaves himself up onto the branch and puts his back to the trunk, studiously ignoring the occasional twinge of vertigo. “Didn’t realize we’d made an appointment.”

“It was only a matter of time.” Caleb licks his finger and turns the page. When Fjord leans closer to get a look at what he’s reading, he can’t make heads nor tails of it. “Research.”

“Huh?”

“Before you ask. I’m doing research. On…” The pause is subtle, flanked by the sideways motion of his eyes as he glances in Fjord’s direction. “Holy places.”

Fjord’s stomach squirms. He’s unsure if it’s the height they’re at or the reference to last night’s… incident. “Find anything interesting?”

“Might have.” There’s a curl to Caleb’s lip that says _yes, definitely_. Fjord leans in again, but instead of trying to read the unfamiliar language, he noses in close to Caleb’s temple and kisses his brow. A strand of hair escapes Caleb’s queue and curls against Fjord’s brow, teased by the wind. “Fjord…”

“You holding out on me, Widogast?”

“I am… _making sure._ ” Caleb turns the next page and continues to read in silence, but he does lean against Fjord’s chest a little, and Fjord counts that a victory. “I don’t want to lead you astray.”

Fjord hums against his neck, kisses the sliver of exposed collarbone where the wind plucks at his shirt. “I think you’ve already done _that_.”

“Incorrigible.” Caleb sounds far from put out—even sighs a little, warm and appreciative, as Fjord slides a hand over his belly and the other at his hip, holding him steady. “ _Fjord_.”

“Hm?”

“Here.” He lays the book flat on his lap and lays his finger on the page. Fjord rests his chin on Caleb’s bony shoulder. “There’s a place we can go. A… resting-place.”

“Like a graveyard?”

“No, like a bower. _The Womb of the Earth_ , some people call it. I’m surprised Caduceus hasn’t heard of it, but then again, he’s as new to these lands as we are.”

Fjord can’t help wrinkling his nose a little. “A womb, eh?”

“Well. She is the Mother. It makes sense, metaphorically speaking.”

“Or literally.”

Caleb gives his knee a little slap, hardly more than a love tap. “I’ve been up since dawn looking for this, the least you could do is show some appreciation.”

“Oh, yes. Right.” Abashed, Fjord wraps his arms around Caleb’s waist and rests his brow against the bow of his neck. It’s a perfect place to close his eyes for a little rest—the dazzling jar-lights are _very_ bright. “I’m sorry, love.”

Caleb goes stiff against him momentarily, then relaxes. The flush of shame comes a beat later.

“Sorry. I’m—I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” Caleb folds a hand over Fjord’s, holding it in place against his belly. It’s softer than it used to be—he’s still rangy and bony and haggard, but he’s sturdier than the flinching, frightened man he met at an inn in Trostenwald. Fjord feels a rush of fond nostalgia and noses close against the nape of his neck, brushing a kiss there. Caleb hums.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Fjord says, leaning back again.

“We’ve slept together multiple times now, Fjord. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a bit of romanticism.”

“Really? Last night, you seemed—I thought…”

Caleb leans back deliberately against Fjord’s front, resting his head on his shoulder. In his lap, the wind ruffles the pages of the book, and Fjord extends a claw to keep them in place. “Last night you nearly drowned in your sleep. I was terrified, Fjord.”

Fjord swallows, still feeling the raw scrape in the back of his throat. He takes a deep breath just to feel the extant stretch of his lungs and lets it out slow into Caleb’s hair. “Yeah. So was I.”

They sit in anxious quiet for a little while longer, fingers tangled together. Fjord’s breath is their metronome: his ribs expand, free and unencumbered by Caleb’s slight weight, and Caleb in turn breathes in and out, face turned so that his nose is tucked under Fjord’s chin. If they twisted up a bit more they could kiss, back to belly and Caleb cradled in the swaddle of Fjord’s thighs; but instead they rest, and breathe and find calm together in the silence.

“This place,” Fjord says after a while, once the warmth of Caleb’s body has leeched away the lingering chill of last night, “it’s easy to find?”

“Probably not. The lost temples of old gods are rarely marked on maps.”

Despite himself, something in Fjord’s blood kindles awake. “Seems like the sort of thing one needs to just… wander in search of, and pray you find it.”

“Pray… yes, I think that’s the crux of it.” Caleb spread his fingertips across the page without really looking at it, like he’s trying to soak the knowledge out of it by osmosis. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“I don’t want to put you in unnecessary danger,” Fjord says immediately. He thinks of the falchion lying dead and useless in Caleb’s room and feels another frisson of fear. “I won’t be much good in a fight for a while, I don’t think.”

“All the more reason for me to go.” Caleb sits up as if electrified and snaps the book shut. “We should ask Caduceus also, I think.”

“And the others?”

“That is up to you.” Caleb turns so that he’s sitting astride the branch and puts a hand to Fjord’s cheek. “This is your pilgrimage, my dearest.”

Fjord bows his head, leaning into the touch a little as he ponders. “I feel like… the more of us that go, the more distracted I’ll be. And I don’t want to put anyone else in danger if I don’t have to. Including _you_.”

“I will be fine.” Caleb’s thumb kisses the arch of his cheekbone and comes to rest at the edge of his hairline, where black fades to silver fades to white. “Let us find Caduceus. The sooner we free you from this pact, the better.”

//

They depart the following morning, when the streets are still mostly still and silent. If the sun could be seen, Fjord would mark the hour just before dawn—but the first few hours they ride in darkness, their moorbounders carrying them at a swift but compromising lope to the outskirts of the city and beyond.

He only realizes how much he’s missed the sky when they finally break through the dregs of shadow into fresh, rainwashed day. He rides with Caduceus for the purposes of navigation, triangulating his own half-formed feelings with the vision Caduceus had prayed for the evening before, kneeling at the base of the tree and calling on the Wildmother directly. The sight had raised the hairs on his arms and nape, and even now the memory of it feels sharp and tangy in his mouth, like the taste of a bitter herb.

The first day is uneventful, even boring. They make camp that night and Caduceus meditates again, though he emerges from the fog-wreathed fugue state with little else in the way of direction to guide them. Fjord barely sleeps that night. He’s too afraid of waking up dead, lungs choked with saltwater.

The second day is slower. A roc passes overhead and they lay still and unmoving for hours in the grass, placating their moorbounders, waiting for the scavenger to move on. When they make camp they’re barely ten miles from where they began, and the itch of weariness is starting to make Fjord tetchy. He takes first watch just to stave off the inevitable a little longer, and when Caduceus wakes to take his turn, he feels so stretched-thin and anxious that he wonders if he’ll ever sleep again.

Against all odds, sleep _does_ find him at last. Just before dawn, as the sky is faded grey, he manages to drop off for a few hours out of sheer exhaustion. He barely even notices, at first—slipping into sleep, the dream is waiting for him like it was standing on the threshold of his mind. He is lying by the wisping half-dead fire, just like he had been awake. Caleb is sitting up beside it, winding and unwinding his copper wire around his finger as he keeps lonely watch. But as Fjord looks closer in the dream, it’s not Caleb after all.

It’s a woman, he thinks. A figure that blurs between one and the next, draped in heavy brown robes that seem clung with greenery the longer he looks. Moss and sedge trim the bottom of her robes, and a heavy grey shawl of spun lichen hangs like a veil from her shoulders. Her hair is just as red as Caleb’s, then redder the longer he looks, glinting like spun gold in the sunlight, wreathed in boughs of living green.

The figure opens her hand to him. Slowly, feeling as though his limbs are weighted down with lead, Fjord gets out of his bedroll and walks to her. Puts his hand in hers.

“You have come a long way,” she says. Her grip is soft, her touch warm and dry. Petals spill out of her open sleeves and scatter around his feet, clinging to the mud on his boots. “Look at me, child.”

Fjord holds his breath and looks. She is beautiful, undeniably—and frightening. Like a raging storm off the coast, glimpses of lightning and lashing rain through the billowing dark of clouds. There is old anger inside of her, and depths of love. Life and death and growth and rebirth, all contained within the galaxies of her eyes. Fjord drops to his knees.

“I’m afraid,” he says, though his mouth does not move. The Wildmother smiles and reaches out with her other hand, cupping the side of his head like one might a child.

“You are braver than you think, little one. And your friends are wise and full of love for you.” Her golden eyes flick past him to the shapes of Caleb and Caduceus slumbering on the ground. “Accept their counsel, but know that only you can take the final step.”

Fjord swallows. “Can you—can you break his hold on me?”

“Perhaps.” She seems to look through him then, past the barrier of flesh and bone to whatever resides within. His spirit, perhaps. He envisions it bound in cold iron chains, and shivers. “I will tell you a secret, child. My power comes from faith. From _your_ faith. I do not strike deals with victims of circumstance like some. Whatever oaths you swear to me must be under your own power, your own device.”

Fjord nods. “Are we close? To your…” He can’t quite bring himself to say the word _womb_ to her face.

The Wildmother just smiles and leans forward. The press of her lips to his forehead is as warm as spring sunlight, and it spreads through him like the balmy touch of the ocean shallows he grew up near. A kindness he’d forgotten the ocean has. He shuts his eyes, and the dark wells up around him and he sleeps.

//

Toward the end of the third day, as the shadows grow behind them, long and dark and lean as they gallop across the plains, they draw near to their destination. He can see it a long way off, first a low dark smudge against the grey-brown backdrop of the flatlands, then budding and growing into the shape of a dark wood clustered low against the base of the foothills. The sunset bleeds across it in shades of rust-orange and deep lilac, licked at the edges with green and vibrant yellow. It’s the most color he’s seen in one place since they left the city. The closer they get, the brighter it grows, and even when the cloaking twilight snuffs it out he can smell it, the sweet floral aromas carried toward them by the breeze like a welcoming arm extended toward them in greeting.

Caduceus sets up camp outside the thicket, his calm infusing Fjord with peace despite the nerves that rattle around his ribs. Fjord clasps the symbol of the Wildmother around his neck, a small trinket gifted him by Caleb before their departure, and stands at the edge looking in. The thorns are long and wicked-looking, but the roses bloom a pale sunkissed pink, fat and bobbing in the breeze, releasing their heady perfume into the air until Fjord is nearly dizzy with it.

“All right?” Caleb asks, hovering near his elbow just barely close enough to touch. He looks more like he should be wading into this thicket than Fjord: windblown from the ride, pink-cheeked, his coat flapping mysteriously around his ankles. A lean and lonesome figure from a fairytale. Fjord allows himself a moment of weakness and draws him into his arms, shoving his face into Caleb’s neck.

“I wish you could come with me,” Fjord mumbles, while Caduceus politely turns his back and pretends to tend the fire.

“I _am_ with you.” Caleb wraps his arms around Fjord’s neck and holds him close, on tiptoes so that his heartbeat imprints itself through his ribs into Fjord’s chest. “Always.”

Fjord squeezes his eyes tightly shut against the tearful prickle that threatens to overcome him. He wants to confess something. To say something foolish and fearful and real. But a lump comes into his throat and no amount of swallowing will clear it, so he just stands there and breathes in the wild smell of Caleb’s hair, and prays.

_Let me keep him safe. Let him be safe, and strong, and wise, and happy. Let him be at peace._

There is a soft, glowing touch at the back of his mind. The cold chill in his chest weakens just a little more.

With a damp sigh, Fjord withdraws and dashes a hand across his eyes. “All right. I’m going in now, I suppose.” He leans in for a quick kiss to Caleb’s cheek. “Don’t feel like you must wait up for me.”

“I will,” Caleb shrugs. His eyes are glittering suspiciously, but he’s smiling proudly, and Fjord can’t think of anything he’d rather do than keep putting that expression on his face again and again. He clasps Fjord’s face between his hands and kisses him soft on the mouth. “ _Ich liebe dich_. Be safe.”

Somehow Fjord doesn’t think that’s the exact translation, but it will do for now. He kisses Caleb back desperately, tongue and teeth, hands gripping his narrow waist like it’s his last lifeline to the surface. And then he releases him and steps away, settles his shoulders. Breathing in the flowers’ sweetness, clasping the wooden wreath in one hand, he thinks of Caleb’s faith and strikes out into the thicket.

It’s difficult going, at first. Caduceus forbade him from using any metal on the twisting, jagged vines, so he makes a go at it with his hands, shifting branches aside and biting back curses when a wayward thorn scrapes his flesh. He longs for his armor, but Caduceus had forbidden that, too. More than once he has to backtrack, and as the hours pass and night falls in earnest he swears he should have reached the end of it—but the tangle persists. Above him the moon gleams cold and unfeeling, and though he can see well enough he still seems to trip more often, exhaustion tugging at him until his arms and face and chest are a mass of scrapes and bruises.

At long last, just when he is on the verge of collapse, he breaks out into open air. Dizzy, thirsty, clinging to the symbol with one sweaty hand, he staggers into the little clearing and goes to his knees. At its center is a tree—a weeping willow, the thick sheaves of its branches falling like water to brush the ground. The grass is soft against his skin, and inviting, peppered with flowers and the occasional blink of a firefly.

“What now?” he whispers. Caduceus hadn’t told him what was supposed to come next.

In his hand, the symbol grows warm. And the tree begins to bloom.

//

Fjord blinks awake to a blue sky.

Although his mind is sluggish and clouded as if he’d slept for days, he feels heavy and full and calm. Well-fed, strangely, though he hasn’t eaten in hours; maybe longer. He is laying on his back in thick grass, sunk into it as though it had grown up around him while he slept. The earth is soft and welcoming beneath him, the loam warm with sun. And his head is pillowed on something warm and soft—a bundled cloak, he thinks, turning his head to glimpse it out of the corner of his eye.

Hands touch his hair gently, drawing it back from his eyes, and he looks up into Caleb’s upside-down face, calm and unshaven and framed in flowers. Fjord takes a deep breath and reaches up to touch his cheek.

“Good morning, sir knight,” Caleb says with a little smile.

“Is it done?” Fjord asks. Or croaks, rather—his throat is dry as dust, as though he’s had nothing to drink for days and days. Perhaps he hasn’t.

“I believe so. Caduceus certainly seemed pleased.” Caleb turns his head to kiss the palm of Fjord’s hand, over the scar. “How do you feel?”

A good question. Fjord himself isn’t sure. He feels leaden and heavy, as if he’s slept for a very long time under layers of blankets. He looks to the side. The thicket is gone, but the tree remains, lush and splendid with brilliant pink and white flowers, and Caduceus sits at its roots, calmly sipping a cup of tea.

Fjord sits up slowly. Clumps of dirt fall away from him, and his shirt shreds away as though it were a thousand years old, half-rotted away into the earth. When he looks down, he is barefoot, and leaves and scattered petals cover his legs and fall from his bare chest. He reaches up and pats his face, his hair. It feels much the same, though he finds, to his bemusement, a single rosebud tucked behind his ear.

At his feet is the sword. The falchion, the same in shape and color, but undeniably different. The blade is a clean, gleaming gold, free of barnacles and its perpetual rime of salt. And instead of an eye at the crosspiece, he sees a rose fashioned from gold, in full bloom, its delicate metalwork vibes curling along the hilt to the pommel.

“Good, I think,” he says at last. He reaches for the sword and holds it flat across his lap, examining it for any trace of its old self. Apart from the general shape and color, it could be a different weapon altogether. “How long was I…?”

“All night.” Caleb’s warm tone wavers slightly. “I was… worried. But Caduceus seemed to think everything was going as it should, and in the end he was right.”

Fjord turns a little, trying to get a better look at him. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Caleb shrugs. “Not exactly.” His face is peaceful but haggard, Fjord can see now, marked with bruises beneath the eyes and a slight chap to the lips as if he’d been nibbling on them. But he smiles when Fjord reaches for him, and leans readily into the rasp of Fjord’s palm against his cheek. “I didn’t want you to be without aid, if you needed it.” He grips Fjord’s hand and kisses the knuckles, the palm still damp with fresh earth. “Come. There’s tea, you should have some.”

“And you,” Fjord insists, not moving.

Caleb stands and brushes grass and bits of leaf litter from his trousers. “We’ll both have tea.”

“All right.”

Clumsily, Fjord stands up, sword in hand, each limb feeling sore and not quite completely attached. As if something took him apart and put him back together again when he wasn’t looking. He gives the sword a little spin in his hand, getting a feel for the altered heft of it, and makes a sheathing motion. It disappears, but not quite in the same way it had before—rather than smoothly disappearing, it slides into nonexistence with a swish of flower-scented air, and his hand comes away with a couple of petals in his palm. He shakes them loose onto the grass and goes hand in hand with Caleb to meet Caduceus beneath the tree.

//

Things will be different now, in more ways than just the obvious. His dreams will be kinder, or at least normal. The sword will behave as it should when he calls on the Wildmother, even though the spells aren’t the same, and sometimes in battle it will become _part_ of him, vines wrapping around his wrist and up his arm until he’s more tree than man, alive with thorns and shedding petals from his skin even when the battle is won and he’s back to his usual self.

His armor will change, too. The leathers will crust over with grey-green lichen that hardens and deflects weaponry as efficiently as metal. His bracers will shift and alter, emblazoned with twisting vines, and when he casts they’ll come alive, glowing and blooming with holy power.

But before any of that, there’s Caleb. This part isn’t related to the rest of it—Caleb helped him find his way to the Wildmother, but his love is not dependent on her. And it _is_ love, confessed in the rosy glow of early morning as Fjord stands tattered and reborn from the earth, wielding a sword that gleams with the blessing of a goddess.

It’s fast—rushed, some might say—but neither of them care much for waiting anymore. Their witnesses are the birds nesting in the trees, the grass that cushions softly underfoot; their priest is Caduceus, who is tall and beatific and beaming as he binds their hands with linen and bestows upon them crowns of willow and rye.

There is no marriage bed that night, but neither of them are particularly fussed. It’s a long ride back to Rosohna, and besides, it would be incredibly rude, although Caduceus does have a tendency to sleep like the dead. Instead, exhausted from the long ride, they curl together in a shared bedroll, knees knocking and fingers tangled between them, letting the events of the last few days wash over and through them like the tide.

“The girls are going to be very upset with us,” Caleb mumbles against his chest, just as Fjord is starting to drift off. He twitches a little as he rouses, and shoves his nose further into Caleb’s wild hair. “For eloping.”

“Suppose we don’t tell them, eh?”

“And how long do you think we’ll manage to pull that off?”

“Hm. True.” Fjord’s thumb curls over Caleb’s knuckles, rubbing the weathered skin softly. “Do you think they’ll make us take a honeymoon?”

Caleb huffs a shallow laugh. “Where would we go? We’re in the middle of a war.”

Fjord sighs. “I know. Just daydreamin’.”

“Night dreaming,” Caleb corrects sleepily. “Hopefully good ones.”

“With you here, can’t be anything but.” Fjord snakes an arm around Caleb’s waist and pulls him closer. He should be nervous to fall asleep, maybe. Should fear the tipping of the scales against him, the rage and fury of a demigod scorned. But with flower petals spilling from his sleeves and a rosy sword lying by his bedroll—and a beautiful, world-weary, brilliant man sharing his bed and his life—he has no fear in him.

“When we’ve won,” Caleb murmurs, warping into a yawn at the end, “take me somewhere sunny.”

Fjord smiles and closes his eyes. Wishful thinking, maybe, that they’ll all survive this intact. But he hasn’t made it this far on pessimism. He nestles a kiss to the crown of Caleb’s head and breathes in the smell of roses and the open plains, wild and untamed.

“I know just the place.”


End file.
